


Montreschere

by Ralph_E_Silvering



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner, Tremontaine
Genre: Action & Romance, Anakin is a famous Swordsman, Crossover, Dooku is Obi-Wan's grandfather, F/F, F/M, Garden parties, Gen, M/M, Obi-Wan is the Duke of Montreschere, Obikin Week 2019, Sheev is up to something as usual, Star Wars / Riverside (Swordspoint), Swordfights, Unresolved Sexual Tension, masked balls, political maneuvering, regency au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:10:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralph_E_Silvering/pseuds/Ralph_E_Silvering
Summary: Reckless, brilliant Anakin Skywalker is being hailed as the greatest swordsman of his age. In a city where the nobles hire swordsmen in their never-ending political games against one another, Anakin is always assured of a job and is beholden to no one and nothing except the sword. Until the day he meets the handsome, reclusive Duke of Montreschere, whose idealism threatens the very foundations of the city’s most powerful players, and Anakin learns the true meaning of living, and dying, by the sword.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Regency AU. The Star Wars / Riverside crossover I had no idea I was going to make until I went to write an Anakin/Obi-Wan Regency AU and this is what happened.
> 
> I wanted to write this for Obikin Week 2019 but real life got in the way. So here it is, really late!

***

The morning was unusually cool for the end of August. Several fallen leaves, ahead of the season, had turned brown and yellow and crunched underfoot of the young man running through them. There was even one red one – a glorious rose-pink color – that had drifted down onto the grey, cobbled streets of the city; as brilliant as a drop of blood on new-fallen snow. For a moment, Anakin Skywalker paused, entranced by the sight, until the shouts of pursuit brought him back to reality. 

“Hey! You there!” The Watch was rapidly gaining on him. “Halt!”

Anakin dove and scooped up the radiant leaf, one hand resting as ever on the pommel of his sword. Then he darted off down a side-street, vanishing into the shadows. There was a fake wall down there, which led to a narrow shortcut back to the bridge leading to Eastbank only for those that knew about it.

By the time the City Watch reached the spot where he’d been standing, the swordsman was long-gone. People in this part of the city studiously went about their business and pointedly ignored the representatives of authority in their midst. A cool breeze blew off the river, rustling through the leaves of the few straggly trees that bordered the narrow streets. High above, the sky was robins-egg blue and filled with fluffy-white clouds like a confectioner’s cake. It promised to be a glorious day.

The captain chewed on his lip for a moment while his men shifted uneasily on their feet. “Hell,” he said, and spat on the cobblestones in disgust.

“We’ll catch him next time, sir,” piped up Robinson, the disgustingly earnest recruit they’d been saddled with.

The captain of the Watch looked around at the dilapidated buildings, the hostile looks they were receiving from all corners, and the number of both men and women who walked these streets with weapons at their waists and danger in their eyes. _I doubt it, _he thought cynically to himself. If Skywalker wasn’t hidden in the scum down here, he was being protected by the scum up on the hill – the nobles and merchants, foreign princes and lawyers who thought their money entitled them to ignore the law as they saw fit.

He glanced up towards where the huge mansions of the nobility towered above the rest of the city, their hundreds of windows sparkling in the early-morning sunlight. He wondered who the boy had been in the employ of last night – Lord Palpatine was always a good bet: the old fool was constantly picking quarrels amongst the nobles and involved in failed bids to gain more power on the council. Count Dooku was another likely candidate: his predilection for young, pretty swordsmen, to be used as both paramours and hired henchmen, was well known. He spat again. _One wrong move, Skywalker_, he promised himself, _and you’re mine_. The cocky young swordsman wouldn’t be protected by noble patrons forever.

“Let’s pack it in for the night, boys,” he said aloud, and led the Watch back to their quarters on Tulliver Street. He would find a way to rid this city of swordsmen and other murderers if he had to spend the rest of his life to do it.

*** 

Anakin was out of breath by the time he reached Eastbank, but the Watch hadn’t followed him. His lodgings situated above the old tanner’s shop, next to the ruined cathedral that had stood there when the queens still ruled, were dark and silent. Stumbling up the stairs, ignoring his landlord’s familiar demand for rent – _I’ll have the money by the end of the week, Watto! I just finished a job. _– he unbuckled his sword and threw himself face-first onto the bed. He was asleep before he’d even hit the mattress.

He awoke to late afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows and an impatient taping at the door. Groaning, his head feeling like cotton, he rolled off the bed and landed on his feet. He was totally awake, his breathing controlled and bare steel in his hand when he opened the door.

A feminine squeak of fear and a plethora of dark skirts was his first impression. He blinked and in the dusk of the stairwell he finally made out the delicate features and wide eyes of Barriss Offee. Barriss was a some-time lockpicker for thieves who worked up the hill, but she must have been between jobs for she was painted like one of the girls at Ziro the Hutt’s House of Pleasure. 

Anakin hid his sword behind his back and tried to look as nonthreatening as possible. Swordsmen had a reputation – and Anakin more than most. People had learned to leave him alone, but there wasn’t any harm in Barriss. 

“Offee,” he said, watching the way she swallowed, and her hands trembled. Dust motes danced in the stairwell behind her illuminated in the beam of sunlight he was letting out into the hall.

“Anakin,” she said, nervously and wrung her hands a bit. She darted a glance behind him into the empty room and flinched before trying to focus back on his face.

“Has there been word for me of a new job?” he asked her, not unkindly.

Barriss’ nod was jerky. “Yes,” she said. “At Dex’s Tavern,” she managed to get out, sounding terrified. 

Anakin told her to wait there and left her on the landing while he pulled on a new shirt and rummaged next to his bed for his sheath and belt. Buckling on his sword, running a hand through his hair to somewhat organize his unruly curls, he stepped back out onto the landing and pulled the door closed behind him. 

He didn’t bother locking it. No one in Eastbank was foolish enough to break into where a swordsman lived. 

Anakin followed Barriss down the stairs and out into the early evening air. The day was still cool, and a feeling of crispness hung in the air, like the first days of autumn. In the square next to the ruined cathedral, several boys and girls were involved in a somewhat violent-looking game of football. They cheerfully shouted at Anakin as he passed, and one impudent youngster aimed the ball at him. It sailed harmlessly passed and the girl was forced to go get it to the catcalls of her friends. 

Between the narrow buildings, brightly-colored laundry had been hung from window to window. Several of the houses – most without window panes in this part of the city – were emitting the smells of cooking as people got ready for dinner. Several Sisters, handing out alms, were clustered together by Fortescue’s Books. The bookseller hadn’t been in business for at least a century and his sign was weathered and faded. Pawnbrokers had set up shop there now, and they let the nuns hand out food on Wednesdays in the belief that well-fed people might be willing to buy something stolen afterwards.

“So, who’s asking for me?” he said at last. Barriss was scurrying along beside him like a mouse afraid of its own shadow. She had been friends with…._ her _and still couldn’t look at Anakin without fear. He was surprised she’d been the one to come get him. 

“A woman. Young.” After a pause she added, “Doesn’t look like she belongs down here.” 

Ah. So that was why Barriss had come. The timid woman had always had a soft spot for those who didn’t fit in down here. She’d befriended Anakin when he’d first arrived, almost a decade ago now, and then she’d befriended – 

“From up the hill?” he asked gruffly.

Barriss wet her lips and shot him a curious look. “Maybe.” Her heavily-painted face grimaced. “Accent’s all wrong but the way she holds herself screams noble.”

Anakin scrubbed a hand down over his chin where 5 o’clock shadow was beginning to show. “Gods I hope it’s not another betrothal,” he groaned.

Barriss’ grin was genuinely amused. “I doubt it,” the younger woman answered knowingly.

They turned a corner, Anakin’s hand on his sword due to the blind spot between the buildings, and Dex’s Tavern came into view. It was one of the few places in Eastbank that had been maintained and even renovated. The buildings in this part of the city were centuries old, set close together and allowed to fall into dilapidation as the nobles and merchants and tradespeople abandoned the area for property further up the hill. The poor and desperate had move into Eastbank, squatting in houses where no one would think to come looking for rent, and where even the Watch knew not to tread. The nobles mostly left Eastbank and the docks across the river alone – unless they needed swordsmen of course – and the houses and buildings were now rundown, most missing windows and falling prey to mold, stairs and walls rotted away or knocked down, and every bit of useful furniture stolen, sold or repurposed by their new inhabitants. 

Dex’s Tavern was a glaring exception. Built in the bottom story of a former mansion, the place was cheerful, brightly-lit and snug. The windows all had class – most of is scrounged from around Eastbank – and a few tables and chairs had been placed outside to take advantage of the last of the summer weather.

Even the criminals and scum of Eastbank wanted somewhere nice to go for a pint after a hard day’s… work.

Dex’s Tavern was its usual hubbub of noise, unwashed bodies and the smell of good cooking. Cool and damp underground, the Tavern’s massive fireplace was roaring merrily and several tables, already filled with inveterate gamblers, were clustered close to the light and warmth of the flames. Late afternoon sunshine streamed through the windows set high in the walls, turning the center of the dim room red and gold, and burnishing the plain wooden tables into copper and mahogany. The door had been left open to let in even more light and the fresh air, which carried the tang of the sea this close to the river.

Dex himself, an aged fellow with a pot-belly, a huge, merry laugh and the biggest whiskers Anakin had ever seen, presided over the bar where he was serving drinks with what seemed like four arms at once. 

“Anakin!” he bellowed as the swordsman and his timid shadow entered the room. “What’re you havin’?!” At the same time, he waved a hand towards a darkened corner of the tavern where a slight figure in a hooded cloak lounged, her back against the wall and a long, steel knife placed bare on the table before her.

Anakin nodded. “The usual Dex, thanks,” he said easily.

Barriss was still hovering, so Anakin dug out several coins to give her, in payment for the information. She shot him a look of thanks liberally mingled with apprehension and vanished into the shadows.

Anakin crossed the tavern, one hand on the pommel of his sword, his eyes sweeping the place. He’d already noticed that Longlais was here, and De Jong, and now he saw that even Witherspoon had crawled out from whatever rock he was usually hiding under. Business had been slow during the long, hot days of August and even swordsmen were beginning to feel the pinch in their stomachs. 

His eyes remained clear and fixed on Longlais and De Jong as he wound his way through the tables towards the girl, a warning towards the others. Witherspoon, whose nerve had been broken years ago, would make no trouble now that Anakin was here.

The noise, which had quieted a bit when Anakin stepped in, rose again to its usual hum by the time Anakin reached the girl. Bright, blue eyes in a sharp-featured face met his implacable gaze without flinching. His respect for his potential employer went up a few notches; most people had trouble meeting the swordsman’s eyes. Dex came and placed two pints of beer on the table before bustling away again. 

“You know how to use that?” he asked the girl, indicating the drawn blade placed on the wooden surface, a deterrent to anyone else from approaching her.

Thin, mobile lips pressed tightly together, and the huge blue eyes flashed. “Test me and you’ll find out,” she warned, and now Anakin could see what Barriss meant about her accent. The girl had the sharp, flat vowels of the lower city, but her intonation was from up the hill. As was the imperious tilt to her chin, and the languid way she moved, with the deliberate carelessness of a noble who had all the time in the world. 

Interesting.

The swordsman sat, keeping a hand on the pommel of his blade. “I’m Anakin Skywalker,” he told the girl. “You’ve come about a job?” He refrained from telling her that he didn’t do betrothals or engagements. She looked about the right age and if her father planned to marry her to someone she didn’t like, well, that was none of his business.

The girl didn’t move from her lounge against the back of the wall. Instead, she looked him over, deliberately, from head to toe. It was a move calculated to make him uncomfortable, as though she were sizing him up for a position as under-footman in her household. A noble’s move.

Anakin had been subjected to many such glances during his time working up the hill. Patiently he waited for her to finish, feeling slightly amused. She was still too young for it to be entirely effective. 

The girl finally moved to sit upright, sheathing the long knife into its place at her belt. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing intricately braided hair which hung in three tails about her head. She was dressed in a dark-red dress, shorter than any respectable noblewoman would wear, with a comfortable pair of boy’s leggings underneath. She held out a hand for him to shake, like the merchants in the middle city did. 

Intrigued by her contradictions, Anakin shook the small hand. She had a remarkably firm grip.

“My name is Ahsoka Tano,” the girl explained. “I’m here on behalf of my father, the Duke of Montreschere.”

Anakin hid his surprise. Even he had heard of Montreschere, the famously reclusive and eccentric young duke who fancied himself a scholar and hid away in his big mansion on the hill. He’d been a wild youth, the rumors said, but that had been before Anakin’s time. Most of the other nobles seemed to consider him nothing but a harmless dreamer now, with the only hint of scandal attached to his name being the fact that several years ago he’d adopted an orphaned girl from the lower city. This must be her.

“And what can I do for Montreschere?” Anakin asked Lady Ahsoka Tano.

The girl’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. Her eyes were restless on the other patrons of the tavern, searching for danger. Anakin noticed that she kept the closest watch on Longlais and De Jong; the greatest threats after Anakin himself. At least her father, the duke, wasn’t sending her down here totally unprepared.

Although what man sent his gently-born daughter into Eastbank to meet with a swordsman, Anakin didn’t know.

“If you will come along with me,” Lady Tano said, “my father will meet with you and explain what he wants in person.” She pushed back her chair and stood, seeming to assume that Anakin would automatically follow her wishes.

The swordsman looked up at her, unmoved. Down here, what a noble wanted held little sway.

A flash of annoyance crossed the girl’s face, but she smoothed it away almost immediately. Most nobles would have turned sharp and imperious, but Lady Tano did neither. She took a deep breath and patiently said: “My father does not often leave the house and grounds. He feared it would be rude of him to request your presence through a servant –” her blue eyes glinted, and her tone turned slightly mocking – “and he wasn’t sure you could _read_ a message penned in his own hand.

Anakin felt his own annoyance rise and kept a rein on his temper with an effort.

“So, I offered to go and see if you would meet with him at Montreschere House to discuss a job.” She paused and then added, in the tone of one laying down a trump card, “For which you will be _paid_.”

Anakin still didn’t move. “What’s the job? I don’t agree to work without knowing what I’m being asked to do.”

“You’re perfectly free to refuse the offer,” the girl assured him, “once my father has explained it to you.” There was just a hint of steel in her tone.

Anakin remained seated. Her eyes narrowed. “My father didn’t specify which swordsman he wanted,” she continued. “I thought he might like to start with the one everyone tells me is the best.” Her tone held just the faintest trace of disbelief. “Of course, if you refuse, I can’t return to my father empty-handed and so I will be forced to make the offer to him.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at Longlais, who was watching their interaction with ill-disguised interest.

Anakin studied the frustration on the girl’s face before looking down at the tankard in his hands. Condensation had gathered on the outside of the stein, cold and wet against his fingers. He didn’t exactly know what point he was trying to make by baiting the young noblewoman; many other nobles had sent servants down to Eastbank with jobs for him and he’d never taken offense. Perhaps it was hearing his own accent in a noblewoman’s drawl that raised his back up. Perhaps it was just that he could recognize himself in the cocky, reckless, fiercely loyal girl standing before him –

He grimaced, drained the tankard and stood up. He opened his mouth, but the girl beat him to it.

“_You_ can follow me, Skyguy” she ordered, pulling her hood back up before sweeping out of the room as grand as a duchess at a ball. 

Anakin stomped after her. “When this job is done, Tano,” he warned, catching up to her as they crossed the square, “you and I are going to talk.”

A cheeky grin was the only response he got.

Montreschere House was one of the grandest on the entire hill. A closed carriage waited for Lady Tano and Anakin once they’d crossed the bridge from Eastbank to the just-as-disreputable area around the docks. “Any problems?” the man on top asked Ahsoka, who shook her head and climbed in.

Anakin followed her and wondered why they just couldn’t walk. Once they reached the wide, well-manicured streets of the upper hill however, he understood. With evening rapidly approaching, the carriages of the rich rumbled back and forth between the great estates, but there was no one out walking. Not even servants, on last minute errands, walked at this time of day.

Anakin watched the lights being lit in the great homes, heard snatches of laughter escape from behind tall hedges and from within beautifully-kept gardens, and listened to the posh, refined accents of nobles issuing from their overly-ornate carriages, as people began to head towards their evening entertainment.

Montreschere House, in contrast, was a haven of calm. The gates were closed, the house was dark save for a few lights in some of the lower rooms, and the place was silent. Two guards waved them through the well-oiled, iron-wrought gates, and the carriage rumbled up a narrow drive that was bordered by waving poplars and cherry blossoms until it came to a stop by the front doors.

The house towered above them, tall and stately and ornate, a remnant from an earlier time.

Ahsoka hopped out with the indefatigable energy of youth. “Come on, Skywalker,” she called. “We don’t have all day.” And then she disappeared up the stairs and into the house. The carriage drove away, and Anakin was alone on the stone steps, feeling the cool breezes of evening and hearing the crickets calling from the hydrangeas.

It was like another world up here: the air was sweet, there was space and light and silence, and everything seemed to move with a well-ordered efficiency. A servant stood respectfully by his elbow. “If you’ll follow me, sir,” he said, holding up a lantern. He turned and led the way into the house.

_Of course_, Anakin thought, _money buys everything._

The servant led Anakin up several darkened stairs, down several corridors, and finally left him at a set of huge, double doors with gold griffins on the handles. “The duke is expecting you,” the man said, before departing with the lantern, utterly silent on the plush carpet underfoot.

He thought about calling after the man to ask where Ahsoka was, but instead he pushed open the doors and stepped into the grandest library he’d ever been in.

Shelves upon shelves of books met his eyes, reaching up to the ceiling and covering the length of a ballroom-sized space. The walls were also covered with books on two sides, stretching up to the ornately carved plaster and the frescoes of frolicking nymphs and cherubs which adorned the ceiling. Floor-length windows filled the other two walls, sparkling in the reflected glow of a crackling fireplace with a huge mirror placed over the mantelpiece. Wide, dark green velvet-covered couches were placed before the windows, looking luxurious and soft. 

And at a huge mahogany desk in a corner of the room, between a window and the fireplace, sat a man. He was slender and elegant-looking, hunched over an untidy pile of parchment which he was squinting at through the aid of a single candle, and utterly oblivious of his surroundings. His skin was ivory pale, and his hair glowed copper in the firelight, falling to just below his shoulders, soft and fine as silk and held back by a single black ribbon.

Even as Anakin watched, a lock escaped the ribbon and fell across his face. The man impatiently brushed it away and tucked it behind his ear. 

Anakin swallowed, his throat going dry. He could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. He didn’t like fair-haired men, or men who wore their elegance like a second skin. He liked his men like he liked his women: dark-haired, dark-eyed and with the hint of danger about them. 

Long, graceful fingers turned the page of the book the man was reading, the rustling loud in the sacred stillness of this space. 

Anakin cleared his throat and the man looked up. Blue-grey eyes met blue, locked and held. Anakin, quite without his own permission, felt himself taking a step towards the other man. Those thin lips smiled, a hint of heat flaring in the blue-grey depths of his kaleidoscopic eyes, and the Duke of Montreschere stood. 

He removed a pair of small, silver spectacles from his eyes and dropped them to the desk and then he held out a hand to the swordsman. “You must be Anakin Skywalker,” he said, in the most refined voice Anakin had ever heard, rich as poured cream, precise and elegant and filled with layers Anakin felt completely out of his depth to understand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

Anakin drifted towards him, his usual poise deserting him, and clasped the duke’s hand. God, why was he burning? He dropped the hand quickly, moved away again. 

“You have a job for me?” he asked, his voice gruff, too harsh. He tried looking at the fire, but the duke’s presence drew him like a magnet, and he was helpless to watch the play of light across the man’s features. They were strong features, but delicate in a way, with centuries of breeding in his cheekbones and in the decided tilt to his chin. He moved with a languid grace that struck a chord of recognition within Anakin. 

The duke came up to Anakin. “I do,” he said quietly, his voice warm and intimate. He reached out a hand and brushed it carefully down Anakin’s jacket. “A bit of dirt,” he murmured, and Anakin felt his face grow warm. There couldn’t have been much there. 

His breathing was growing short. 

The duke’s eyes were clear and changeable, moving from blue to grey and back to blue, with even hints of the green sea in them. This close he exuded warmth, the smell of his freshly washed clothes, and something deeper underneath, something rich and subtle and exotic, like myrrh. 

His fingers brushed, light and tantalizing, down the outside of Anakin’s coat again. 

No one touched a swordsman without their permission; the entire city knew that and many in Eastbank had died because of it. And Anakin especially had always been careful with his personal space. He couldn’t believe he was allowing the duke this close, that he was able to allow the duke this close. 

Montreschere brushed his fingers up Anakin’s throat, fixed the collar of his shirt. “There,” the older man breathed. He swallowed and Anakin watched the flutter of his throat, could see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. 

“My lord,” he breathed the title, and it did not feel wrong. The duke’s eyes fluttered closed and he released a shaky breath. Those long, delicate hands clenched in Anakin’s shirt. 

Anakin realized that he would kill for this man without hesitation. “What do you want of me?” 

The duke’s eyes opened and took a step back, the sudden cold striking Anakin like a physical blow. “Forgive me,” he said, looking startled. “I just –” He trailed off, looked behind him at the pile of papers on his desk. He cleared his throat. “I just had a couple of questions for you-”

He broke off, frowning, at the look of sudden anger on Anakin’s face. “Mr. Skywalker, I assure you,” the duke hastened to explain. “It will only take an hour, at most, of your time and you will be well-compensated.” 

Anakin felt the sudden tightening of a noose around his neck. He should have known. Not even this man, as beautiful as the first stars of evening, wanted him for himself. Like every other noble, he wanted to use Anakin for his own purposes alone. He didn’t want what was offered – a swordsman’s skills and Anakin himself – the sudden, startling passion between them – but was simply enmeshed in the petty politics of the hill, seeking to learn about Anakin and then bend him to his will. Have Anakin only at his beck and call and then discard him when that use was accomplished. 

Anakin’s chin rose dangerously and if he had known it, his blue eyes chilled to shards of ice. The duke’s eyes widened. “I’m conducting a study,” he tried, one last time, “on swordsmen.” He waved a graceful hand at the books all around them. “And their historical use by the nobility in order to –” 

“Save it,” Anakin said, with barely-suppressed rage. His body thrummed with tension. “Play your games with someone else, _my lord_,” he spat and took pleasure in watching Montreschere flinch. 

And then, back straight, the swordsman turned and left the Duke of Motreschere’s library. He left the duke’s house. He walked all the way back to Eastbank. Where he belonged.

The nobles could play their petty games without him. If they wanted a sword, they could pay him. Otherwise, Anakin Skywalker wanted nothing to do with any of them.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m hoping this is not another endlessly complicated, WIP fic. I’ve got a tightly-plotted, 10-chapter story arc planned, so I’m hoping I can crank this out in a couple weeks and then get back to ‘The Far Dark Shore’ (which will be updated soon, I promise). 
> 
> Let me know if you like the premise so far! And if you’ve read the Riverside series. I’ve got no one to get excited about Alec / Richard and Will / Rafe with me!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quiet of the summer’s night was broken by the ring of steel on steel.

***

The quiet of the summer’s night was broken by the ring of steel on steel.

Two swordsmen, both masters of the art, battled each other across the moonlit gardens of Lord Durd’s estate. Torches had been lit, not to aid the participants but to allow the bystanders on the balconies a clear view of the proceedings. Everyone liked a good death after all.

One man was triumphant and the other died, almost instantly, from a single strike through the heart. It had been a thing of beauty, a lunge, a thrust, the triumphant swordsman too fast and powerful to counter despite the fact that he’d left himself wide open in his last, perfect strike.

The crowd gasped, applauded and Anakin looked down from the blood rapidly spreading across De Barra’s white shirt and up into a sea of faces. An overwhelming impression of lace and silk, of frills and feathers and fans, of ornately painted features and artificial smiles met his gaze.

Anakin looked up at all the painted people, the light, inconsequential patter of their chatter washing over him in a droning hum. They were like marionettes on a string, no more real than the dolls he saw little girls play with sometimes in Eastbank. 

_And who is the puppet master?_ He thought, giddily, still running high on adrenaline from his duel with De Barra. He tried to look through the crowd for a familiar face, and realized he was searching desperately for the copper hair and blue-grey eyes of Montreschere. There had been sense of calm he’d felt within the man’s presence; not the calm of inaction or obliviousness, but rather the calm of the deep ocean held in check.

Montreschere had been all controlled elegance and exuded a quiet power beneath that pleasant, polite exterior.

He grimaced and dropped his eyes to the ground again, away from all those falsely smiling faces. Knowing what they wanted – a show – Anakin raised his bloodied sword in a traditional salute, before flourishing it outwards and bowing before the assemblage, a gentleman in all but name.

“Huzzah!” shouted the crowd.

Countess Unduli was striding across the lawn now in a billow of skirts, her beautiful face relieved. Lord Durd, whose man had lost, had retreated inside. He would not be seen for the rest of the party, even though his guests would continue the night’s revelry in his house and gardens.

Countess Unduli reached Anakin’s side and made to place a hand on his sleeve. Thinking better of it, she dropped the hand back to her side and merely said, “Thank you, Mr. Skywalker. As agreed, I will send someone down to Eastbank tomorrow with the remainder of your payment.” She hesitated for a moment. “I am, truly, most grateful for your assistance.” Her voice and her eyes were both sincere. 

She had approached Anakin at Admiral Yularen’s annual summer party over a month ago, regarding a ‘matter of honor,’ she had said. She would not go into specifics and had merely asked him to challenge and defeat Lord Durd’s house swordsman, De Barra. 

“That should be enough to get him to leave me alone,” she had said, severe and pretty in her simple black widow’s clothes.

Countess Unduli had lost her husband to the Outremer Fever less than two years ago and had been subjected to more than one nobleman since who thought to take advantage of the situation. She was an attractive, middle-aged woman, whose dowry and property were still intact and who had, moreover, inherited her late husband’s estate. There were no children of the union, so the Countess was wealthy in her own right and whomever she named as her heir would inherit both the title and a sizable fortune.

There were many ways in which Lord Durd could have been harassing the Countess and none of them were pleasant. Lord Dour was an odious man and several of the women and men who worked in Ziro’s establishment had refused to serve the sadistic noble. The merchants in the middle city had brought several complaints before the Lower Council regarding his actions, and the Watch had, more than once, been called to his estates. 

Anakin’s choice to represent the Countess had really been no choice at all. His mother, had she still lived, would have been most disappointed in him if he had not.

“My lady,” Anakin told the Countess now, nodding to her. Deciding what would be appropriate to say, he added, “It was my honor.”

The Countess’ smile was cool like slopes of snow. “What manners you have, Mr. Skywalker. Most unusual in a swordsman. Are you sure your mother was not born on the hill?” 

Anakin’s polite smile became somewhat strained. It was a common response in nobles meeting Anakin for the first time. His uncommon good looks, his youth and his manners were anachronistic in a city where any thug could pick up a sword and learn to wield it with at least basic proficiency.

The girl Ahsoka’s, barbed comment regarding Montreschere’s assumption that Anakin couldn’t read rose up in his memory again. His mother had been poor, not ignorant. 

His hand clenched on the hilt of his sword and he bent to wipe the blade on De Barra’s shirt. Servants were approaching to take the body, servile in that way that made Anakin’s skin itch.

The swordsman straightened and sheathed his weapon without quite meeting the Countess’ eyes. “My mother never saw the city,” he told the Countess truthfully. “She spent all her life teaching poor men’s sons to read.”

The Countess visibly hesitated again. At last she said, polite and formal, “Would you care to stay and take some refreshment after your exertions?” She waved a hand towards the balconies above them, with the doors thrown open to let in the balmy night air and the smells of food and sounds of merriment drifting out. “I’m told there will even be fresh strawberries,” she confided mischievously, “even though it is no longer the season for it.”

Most of the nobles had wandered away from the aftermath of the duel now that the excitement was over, either heading further into the gardens for clandestine rendezvous or into the main house for some light refreshment and conversation. A quartet of strings struck up a waltz recently come from the Continent and through the glittering windows of the ballroom, Anakin could see several young women grouped together, watching avidly over their fluttering fans for a gentleman to ask them to dance.

He stepped back from the Countess. “No,” he said. Remembered to add, “Thank you.” His heart was still pounding, not unpleasantly, from the duel. It had been a good fight, one where he hadn’t been sure for a moment whether he would win or not, and there was no way he could stomach making polite, meaningless conversation right now. All he wanted was to fight or fuck someone.

It was a dangerous combination. In this state, he was all too likely to allow one of the men or women at Durd’s party to take him to bed, a liaison he would regret in the morning. 

“I’d better go,” Anakin told the Countess. Without even waiting for her response, the swordsman turned on his heel and left Lord Durd’s house, stepping through the open front gates and beginning to run down the hill.

His business there was perfectly legal, and the Countess would have offered him a ride back to Eastbank in her coach if he’d asked, but Anakin’s blood was up and so he ran like the Watch itself was at his heels.

***

Lord Obi-Wan Benedictus Kenobi sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was rare that he made the trip down the hill to the seaside estate of his grandfather, Count Dooku of Serenno, and he was rapidly being reminded why.

Ahsoka, slouched in a deliberately provocative manner on the couch next to him, shot him a darkly triumphant look. “I told you,” she said, taking delight in Obi-Wan’s misery like a good daughter should.

“Yes, well, there’s no need to take quite so much joy in my misfortune,” Obi-Wan told her dryly.

Ahsoka snorted. “You’re just lucky I decided to keep you company.” She scowled. “You know Dooku never wants to see _me_.”

There was just the right amount of scorn in her voice that it would have fooled most. But Obi-Wan was her father and he knew her well; there was a small sliver of hurt underneath all that youthful bravado at the fact that Lord Dooku had never once acknowledged his adoptive great-granddaughter. 

Obi-Wan slid across the ridiculously ornate sofa and pulled Ahsoka into a gentle, one-armed hug. He kissed the top of her ornately braided hair and just breathed in the familiar scent of his daughter. His life would have been so much duller without her bright, vivacious presence running through it. He was relieved when she automatically relaxed into his arms with only a normal amount of protesting. He would never tell her, but he dreaded the day she finally became too old for hugs. 

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Obi-Wan told her fiercely. He smoothed his hand soothingly down her back while he thought. “Ma Chérie,” he said at last, “perhaps it might be best if you went home.”

Ahsoka reared back from her father, shock and hurt on her face, and Obi-Wan grimaced apologetically. “I do not want you subjected to his temper,” the duke explained, “and if he has made us wait this long…” he trailed off.

Dooku’s arrogance and temper were legendary on the hill. Obi-Wan’s mother had never liked him and she’d taken the first opportunity to marry a man too powerful for the Count to bully. Obi-Wan himself only visited the irascible old man out of obviously misplaced family loyalty; however, his patience was rapidly being tested tonight and if the Count took his temper and prejudice out on Ahsoka – 

Well, it would be best for all concerned if Ahsoka didn’t have to witness even more family dysfunction in her already-unusual life. 

Ahsoka’s face took on the stubborn cast it did when she was certain her father wasn’t taking proper care of himself by staying up all night reading. “He doesn’t treat you right,” she said, belligerently, “and _one day_ I’m going to tell him so!”

Obi-Wan suppressed a smile. Wherever Ahsoka had gotten her fierce spirit from, it certainly hadn’t been him. “One day,” he promised his daughter, “but not today. Take the carriage home and rouse cook to make you the sherbet you like so much.” He kissed her forehead again. “I’ll be home presently.”

Ahsoka stared at him for a moment and Obi-Wan geared himself for an argument, but at last she stood and said, somewhat sullenly, “I’ll walk.” She turned to leave and then dashed back again, throwing herself at Obi-Wan and squeezing him with a strength that belied her size. “Je t’aime, papa,” she whispered. And then she was gone, the heavy front doors banging behind her as she went. 

The foyer where they had been made to wait was dark and chilly and even emptier with Ahsoka’s departure. Obi-Wan shivered. _It’s for the best_, he told himself firmly, but he couldn’t help the crawl of apprehension of his spine. He’d never liked these visits with Dooku and as the old man neared the end of his life, they only seemed to grow worse; as though all the spite inside the Count was seeking one final chance to wreck the lives of those he’d soon leave behind.

“My lord?” A beaten-down looking woman was holding open the door to one of the sitting rooms. The red glow of the fireplace crawled out into the darkened hallway from the room behind her. “The Count will see you now.”

Obi-Wan stood, took a deep breath, and readied himself for battle.

Lord Tyrannus Dooku’s sitting room was as overly ornate and garishly furnished as ever. Gold glinted ostentatiously from almost everything, and in the flickering red-orange glow of the fireplace, turned the room an ominous red and black. No candles were lit and so Obi-Wan navigated by the glow of the fire alone as he walked over thick Outremer rugs towards the proud old man who was the only occupant of the room. 

The quiet click of the door as the maid escaped confirmed his suspicions.

Dooku did not acknowledged Obi-Wan’s presence. “Grandfather,” the duke said, seating himself in the winged chair on the other side of the fire from the Count. He turned to look at the old man, while patiently waiting for his grandfather to say something. He would not play Dooku’s games, but he also saw no reason to not remind the old man that he was here. 

Tyrannus Dooku was a tall, imposing presence, dark-browed still, despite his advanced years and the whiteness of his hair. His nose was hooked and imperious and his lips never smiled. His eyes were hooded and dark and he steepled his fingers together as he watched the fire; its red glow reflected in his eyes.

Eventually, after several minutes, Obi-Wan took out a book on the history of the Council and settled in to read.

“So, you have come once more to bother me,” the Count said at long last. His voice was as deep as a gong. And as warm. 

Obi-Wan didn’t even bother looking up from his paragraph on the tax incentivization of the previous century. “And so, you have at last deigned to acknowledge my presence,” he drawled, and winced internally. 

_Temper, Kenobi_, he reminded himself. No good ever came of rising to the Count’s baiting. But it was hard to remember that when he could be home sharing Sherbet with Ahsoka and idly daydreaming on accidentally running into that intriguing young swordsman, Anakin Skywalker, again. 

The Count’s head turned towards him like defective clockwork. One imperious eyebrow rose. “Why should I bother to acknowledge a stain on the family name? A useless, weak fool who hides away in shame for his failures.” 

And there it was. The same conversation they had every time. 

Obi-Wan thought about telling his grandfather that his acknowledging he had made mistakes was not a sign of weakness, that Obi-Wan was engaged in_research,_ not hiding away, and that the only stain on this family was Dooku himself, his arrogance and petty cruelty, but they’d had this argument more than enough times. Obi-Wan never won it. 

Instead, when he’d gotten a strict rein on his temper, he asked pleasantly, “And how is your health, my lord? I heard you’d had a spot of bother with the gout?” And he continued reading his book.

He was rewarded for his efforts by the flash of rage that crossed Dooku’s face. It was a subtle reminder to his grandfather that while Obi-Wan rarely crossed the threshold of his own land and seldom partook of the company of his peers, he was not unaware of their actions.

“My health,” Dooku announced in stentorian tones, “is as well as it ever was.”

“That’s good to hear.” Obi-Wan delicately turned the page in his book.

Dooku turned away from him again, face still flushed with rage. His hands clenched in the fabric of his chair and he probably thought Obi-Wan failed to notice. Dooku was a man with little self-control, the Obi-Wan reflected. It was why he’d made such a poor politician, despite all his hungering for power. It was also why he’d driven Obi-Wan’s grandmother to commit suicide, and his mother to flee into a marriage with Obi-Wan’s much older – and not much of a catch, truth be told, despite the title – father. 

“And what fool nonsense are you reading now?” Dooku demanded at last. He’d utterly failed to ring for either tea or brandy, despite all rules of either civilized behavior or common decency.

Obi-Wan, knowing a loosing battle when faced with it, made up his mind to go before the Count said something Obi-Wan couldn’t let pass. He gently closed his book, smoothed down the cover, and moved to stand. “I continue my investigation into the nobility’s historical use of swordsmen and the legal precedence for it. As well you know, grandfather,” he said quietly. 

Dooku snorted with derision. “Poppycock.”

Obi-Wan frowned, despite himself. “It’s not ‘poppycock,’ it’s actually quite fascinating. Did you know, for instance, that Lord Morlan once hired a half-dozen of the best swordsmen of his time in order to defend himself from accusations of bribing officials on the Court of Chancery? He had them challenge every official who came to press charges and _eventually_,” Obi-Wan announced with excitement, “the charges were _entirely_ dropped!” 

Dooku’s fingers clenched even harder on the armrests of his plum-velvet chair. 

“And that was just in the past fifty years! The number of examples I’ve found for nobles using swordsmen to preserve their power, despite the law, and resorting to murder on top of it – it’s _astounding_.

“Really, when you think about it, the noble class has _no right_ to circumvent the course of justice in this fashion, and if someone would just –,” Obi-Wan’s voice had risen in tone and pitch, until he found himself standing, waving his arms about in passion before Dooku’s implacable visage. He broke off. 

The old man watched him with a face like granite. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and Obi-Wan’s heavy breathing. 

“This,” Dooku announced, the weight of his disapproval a physical blow, “is why they call you the ‘Mad Duke,’” He rose and towered over Obi-Wan. “This insane obsession with things no one even cares about. You let your power, your _authority_, go to waste dithering around with _old books_” – he spat the words – “and you wonder why the only heir you’re ever likely to get is a little guttertrash _bitch_ who doesn’t know her true place in polite society.” 

Dooku had started off low and controlled, as sibilant as a snake, but by the end of it he was roaring.

“Get out of my house; you pathetic excuse for a nobleman. As weak as your mother! And just as foolish!” He clenched his hands into fists as though to prevent himself from physically striking the younger man. “Get out!”

The silence after that was terrible.

Obi-Wan was white right down to his lips, shock rapidly giving way to an anger that turned his vision red. Something of his barely-controlled fury must have shown in his eyes, for the Count did not raise a hand to him.

Instead, after a long, long moment, in which Obi-Wan weighed every single word before he spoke, the Duke of Montreschere said, “You may say what you like about me, grandfather.” He swallowed. His throat was dry, and he cursed the adrenaline that turned his voice hoarse. “But the next time to speak about Ahsoka in that manner,” he took a step nearer to the Count, “you will find out exactly who I was ten years ago, when I made all my – _mistakes_.” It was a warning and an unmistakable threat.

For a wonder, Count Dooku didn’t rise to the bait.

“Good night,” the Duke of Montreschere bit out, anger making him stiff and precise. And with those words, he swept out of Serenno, back into his waiting carriage and out into the night. His heart was pounding unpleasantly, and he felt sick to his stomach. 

The book on council history was forgotten in Dooku’s sitting room. The Count stared at it for a long while before reaching over and tossing it into the fire.

***

The night may have been balmy, but Anakin had only run several blocks before he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his clothes sticking unpleasantly to him. The full moon did him no favors either, its silvery glow illuminating the stately mansions, broad streets and perfectly manicured lawns of the rich and powerful, but also illuminating the man with the sword running past them.

It was a night watchman, his lantern casting a golden glow in a perfect circle around him, who first raised the alarm. 

Anakin didn’t even pause, diving down a cross-street to the right. 

“Quick!” shouted the voice in hot pursuit, “He’s heading down Webster Avenue. We can cut him off at Townsend!” 

_Like hell you can,_ Anakin thought grimly, as he vaulted a hedge and cut directly across one of the estates. More chances of dogs this way, but less chances of the Watch. The grass was wet with dew and the gardens were strange in the moonlight, but the shouts of the Watch were left behind him as he faulted another hedge, jumped over a pond filled with silvery-colored fish he’d never seen before, and scaled a wall, before jumping down into a street thankfully deserted of watchmen.

Anakin could no longer tell exactly where he was but, after a brief hesitation, he turned right and headed down the hill. At least that was the right overall direction and eventually he should come to a street he recognized again. 

He turned the next corner and almost ran directly into the Watch Captain himself. The man’s dyed-blonde hair gleamed in the lanternlight as he stood there, helmet removed to wipe sweat off his forehead. He froze, eyes widening, when he saw Anakin.

For a moment the two of them stood there in frozen tableau, the swordsman and the watchman. Anakin’s shirt was covered in blood from De Barra’s death, he was covered in sweat from his headlong dash from Lord Dod’s house and his hand blatantly rested on the pommel of his sword, ready to draw.

The Captain’s eyes narrowed. “Skywalker,” he growled, and swung the lantern he held right at Anakin’s face. “He’s here!” he bellowed to the night. 

Anakin ducked, rolled, came up on his feet again, and didn’t bother wasting any time killing the officer. He ran on. 

The Captain, too clever to attempt to take Anakin on one-to-one, waited ten or so seconds before following, so that his men could catch up to him. But ten seconds were all Anakin needed to gain an excellent head start. He dashed down one street and then another, and another. He was almost by the seaside villas, the scent of salt and brine filling his nose, when he heedlessly turned another corner and almost collided with a nobleman’s fancy couch.

Anakin narrowly avoided ending up under the horse’s hooves, the driver cursing him out all the while, and awkwardly landed on his sword arm as he dove out of the way.

“You fuckin’ idjit!” swore the coachman. “What the bleedin’ ‘ell you think yer doin’?”

Anakin stumbled to his feet again. “Sorry,” he panted, looking up towards the occupant of the carriage and, as this day would have it, meeting the stormy blue-grey eyes of the Duke of Montreschere. The man’s face was pale, as though he hadn’t slept or had been ill. “Are you alright?” Anakin blurted, and immediately wanted to cut his own tongue out.

Before he could work out a way to apologize for presuming to ask such a bold question and escape with the rest of his dignity intact, the sounds of the Watch from around the corner drew the duke’s attention. He looked back at Anakin. “I think now might be an excellent time to finish our conversation from last night,” Montreschere drawled, one eyebrow raised in question. And he opened the door of the carriage. 

Anakin didn’t even hesitate. He dove within the darkened interior, the door snapped shut, and the coachman whipped his horses into a fast cantor. “Stay down,” the duke murmured, as the carriage rocked, and the watchman poured into the area from every direction.

“Get out of the way!” the coachman yelled, but apparently this Captain had other ideas, for Anakin heard the coachman swear and then haul hard on his reins in an apparent effort to avoid running over the man.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the Captain’s voice came through the open window. The orange glow of his lantern caused shadows to dance around the interior.

Anakin, crouched on the floor, looked up and watched the light flicker across Montreschere’s pale features. There was strain about the duke’s eyes and his lips were pressed tight together. Anakin didn’t think it was from the watchman halting his coach.

“Have you seen a swordsman run through here?” The captain asked. "Young, and covered in blood?"

Montreschere’s pale hand, festooned with rings which sparkled in the lantern light, rested on the edge of the coach. He leaned forward towards the captain and a lock of silky hair escaped the clasp at the back of his neck. It whispered across his pale cheek and Anakin swallowed hard, looking away again. His heart was pounding hard within his chest.

“I have not,” the duke said gravely. Pause. “This man has committed a crime?” he inquired.

The Captain’s voice was grim. “Oh, I have no doubt he did. Hired to fight up on the hill, he was. Like as not, it ended in murder.”

“Oh my,” the duke murmured, sounding so deliberately shocked that Anakin had to swallow a slightly-hysterical laugh. 

He could still see the other man out of the corner of his eye, those long, elegant fingers tapping on the edge of the coach, the decided nose, the cleft chin, his pale eyelashes as he closed his eyes halfway to survey the watchmen arrayed before him.

For a moment the duke seemed strangely undecided, tension humming through his body as he held himself stiff and straight against the plush seats of his richly-appointed coach. His lips parted and Anakin held his breath, heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

_Was Montreschere about to give him up to the Watch?_ He tensed himself to dive out the other side of the coach and start running again. 

“Well,” the duke drawled, a faint note of mockery in his voice, “I will certainly tell you if I run into a murderous swordsman this evening, Captain.” He inclined his head. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

It wasn’t a question. The duke signaled his coachman, who whipped up the horses once more, and the furious face of the Captain was the last sight Anakin glimpsed before the coach turned the corner and everything was plunged into darkness once more.

The duke let out a relieved breath and slumped back against the cushions. “Well, that was close,” he said.

Anakin hauled himself up from the floor and sat across from him. His hand still rested on the pommel of his sword. “For a moment there, I thought you were going to give me up,” he confessed.

The moonlight caught Montreschere’s bright eyes widening in surprise. The duke licked his lips. “It never even occurred to me.” He smoothed his hands down his pants. “I was going to ask another question, but then I decided that might seem suspicious.”

Anakin’s erratic heart went from pounding hard for one reason, to pounding hard for a completely different reason. He flashed the older man a cocky grin. “Couldn’t resist the charm of my boyish good looks?” he heard himself say, to his abject horror. His face flamed and he was glad it was night. Perhaps the duke wouldn’t notice. 

Montreschere’s chuckle was warm and intimate. “Something like that,” he agreed, in that voice which caused Anakin’s insides to flutter alarmingly. 

Anakin, feeling bold and reckless, not wanting the evening to end so soon, took a deep breath. “Perhaps,” he said, slowly, feeling his way as he went, “it would be best – to allay suspicion of course – if I –” His throat closed up and he couldn’t continue.

The duke, after a moment, picked up the thread. “– come along with me back to Montreschere House for a while?” The duke’s fingers were relaxed against his pants but there was a strange note in his voice. “That is an excellent idea. It would be best if you stay the night.” He paused. “I’ll have a room prepared for you.” Another pause, slightly longer. “You will, of course, be provided breakfast tomorrow before you leave.” 

They were sitting so close to one another in the confined space of the carriage that Anakin’s knees brushed the duke’s. He felt the insane urge to reach over and take the man’s hands in his, interlace their fingers together and pull the duke towards him. 

Anakin felt slightly lightheaded and he knew that the wisest course of action would be to get out of Montreschere’s coach right now, make his way back to Eastbank, and meet with the duke when he wasn’t so…unbalanced. 

But the older man’s face was pale in the moonlight, and with his bright eyes, the surprising fineness of his hair as it hung about his face, and those long, elegant hands, festooned with glittering jewels, he looked like an enchanted prince. 

“Yes,” he said, and the Duke of Montreschere’s lips curved in a slight smile that failed to reach his eyes, as the coach rattled on up the hill.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter summary – Anakin joins the duke in Montreschere House’s library and immediately finds something to argue about. Meanwhile, Ahsoka learns a little family history, and Lord Palpatine receives a disturbing report.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duke was sprawled across the couch in distracting and elegant dishabille.

***

The Duke’s carriage rumbled up the hill, past empty shops and quiet, sleepy houses, and Obi-Wan realized that he’d never noticed how small the infernal contraption was until this moment.

Anakin Skywalker was much too close to him. In the darkness, Obi-Wan could sense the swordsman’s preternatural stillness, hear his quiet, even breaths, and feel the brush of his knees every time the carriage hit a rut or pothole in the cobblestones. The moonlight came and went inside the carriage, illuminating the curve of a cheek, a strong jawline, and the sturdy, square hands that rested on the swordsman’s thighs. The fingers were slightly curled, palms callused, and Obi-Wan shocked himself by the sudden rush of want that flared in him as he thought about those hands touching him.

It didn’t matter that the swordsman was close enough Obi-Wan only had to bend forward to brush skin against skin; the duke wanted him closer. He wanted to feel those sword-callused hands skating over his body: he wanted to reach out and entwine their hands together, bring Anakin’s fingers up to his lips and watch the boy’s eyes darken as the duke sucked one digit slowly, deliberately into his mouth.

He wanted to watch Anakin Skywalker come undone from his presence, his touch alone. He wanted to watch all that passion in the younger man, all that energy and drive and determination which seemed to burn within him as brightly as the sun, be turned on Obi-Wan alone.

He hadn’t felt like this since – since – _oh, dear._

He swallowed; mouth suddenly dry. He was feeling strangely dizzy in the closed confines of the carriage and blamed it on the fact that he’d eaten very little today – practically nothing in fact – as well as on his recent confrontation with Dooku. “We’ll be there soon,” he murmured to the man seated across from him, smooth voice giving nothing away of his internal turmoil. He leaned back further into the cushions, closing his eyes to let as much of the night air as possible brush across his face and cool his overheated body.

His movement had the unintended side effect of also brushing his leg against the inside of Anakin’s thigh. The warmth of him through the thin material of his breeches was shocking, enticing, and Obi-Wan felt the younger man turn absolutely motionless, holding himself in the restrained readiness that presaged sudden action; a swordsman’s poise.

“Apologies,” the duke murmured, not moving his leg. It was strange, he mused to himself, hearing his own pulse beating rapidly in his ears. He wanted to be both closer to Anakin Skywalker – yearned to be closer, felt every nerve ending in his body aching to be closer – and felt sick with dread and shame at the mere thought of it.

He couldn’t seem to shake the sense that it was, in some sense, a betrayal. Which was nonsense of course. _She’d _been dead for many years now - - and she’d never even been his to begin with.

“What, ho!” shouted the coachman, as they pulled up to the wrought iron gates of Montreschere House. They smoothly opened and Obi-Wan pulled away from the swordsman, alighting immediately from the carriage as soon as it pulled up before the front doors. Ralph, who was on door duty that night, opened the doors for him and warm, golden light poured out onto the wide stone steps, bathing the duke in its glow.

He felt himself relax slightly, his natural cool composure returning to him: he always felt more himself within the grounds of Montreschere House.

He turned and extended a hand towards Anakin, still seated in the shadowy depths of the coach. “Would you care to join me for a brandy?” His voice was smooth and controlled, the drawling accents of his youth clearly audible, and he could see the young man swallow hard. His blue eyes were intense as he looked from the duke’s hand up to his face. He obviously had no idea how open his face was, how his wants were clearly written across those expressive features.

Slowly the young man placed his hand in Obi-Wan’s and the duke had to repress a shudder at the touch of him, hot as a brand. He tightened his grip and pulled Anakin from the carriage.

“Thank you, Georg,” he called up to the quietly amused coachman. “That will be all for tonight.” Obi-Wan’s voice was slightly stern.

“Very good, me lord.” And with a shake of the reins, and audacious and not-at-all appropriate wink, and a clucking of his tongue, the coachman headed back to the stables and his well-deserved rest. 

Obi-Wan tried to fight a blush and looked up at Ralph. “Is Ahsoka home?”

The doorman nodded. “She got back just before you, my lord.” The man’s expression was utterly bland. “Went right to the kitchens, she did. Cook’s still up and will take care of her, don’t you worry.”

Obi-Wan nodded, and then tugged gently on Anakin’s hand still in his. He could feel the rough skin on the boy’s palm from hours of sword practice, as well as the pure strength in his fingers. They were trembling just slightly in his. Obi-Wan’s rings, including the huge Montreschere ruby, glinted through their entwined fingers when the duke looked down.

“If you will come with me to the library, Skywalker?” He went up on the first step and looked down at the swordsman and made sure to keep his voice light in invitation, even though he couldn’t seem to release the man’s hand.

Anakin nodded, his eyes never leaving Obi-Wan’s face. He looked slightly dazed.

“Would you like some brandy brought up, my lord?” Ralph asked, breaking the moment in his studiously neutral voice.

“Thank you, Ralph, that would be appreciated,” Obi-Wan said quietly. Anakin’s eyes were so very blue. And with that, the duke pulled Anakin up the stairs and into the house.

***

The duke’s library was as vast and well-stocked as Anakin remembered from the first time he’d been here.

_Was it really only last night?_ He thought to himself, feeling overwhelmed and too hot. So much had happened in the span of twenty-four hours. Was it really only this evening that he’d killed a man in the Countess Unduli’s defense? Was it really only just yesterday that he’d met the Duke?

The fire was roaring in the hearth and Anakin was seated on one of the plush, blue-velvet couches that lined the room; the one closest to the fire where the decanter of brandy stood open and already half-empty. This couch had a companion piece placed directly across from it, on which the duke was sprawled in distracting and elegant dishabille. Copper strands of hair escaped from the gold clasp at the back of his neck and hung in soft strands about his face. His eyes were heavy lidded and fixed on Anakin’s face as he politely listened to whatever nonsense was coming out of his mouth, and his lips were slightly party and wet with brandy.

He’d removed his jacket and was dressed in nothing but black britches and a billowing white shirt, the collar of which was open, revealing a diverting glimpse of his sharp collar bone.

“So really, you see, it’s no different than if a noble did it, it’s just that –” Anakin broke off, losing his train of thought as the duke tilted his head back, swallowing the rest of the brandy in his glass. Anakin watched the movement of his throat, the duke’s pale skin taking on a faint rosy glow from the fire and the spirits he’d consumed. The rings on his long fingers glittered in the firelight.

Montreschere reached over and placed his empty glass on the side table with a quiet ‘clink.’ “Please, do go one,” he said courteously. His lips were still wet from the alcohol and the lashes on his half-lowered eyelids caught the light as he licked them slowly.

Anakin licked his own lips and tried to remember what he’d just been talking about. It had obviously been important; his voice had been raised in impassioned diatribe against – against – against…

The duke leaned forward and placed a slender, elegant hand on Anakin’s knee, those long fingers of a burning brand through the thin material of the swordsman’s trousers. “Ana - - Mr. Skywalker?” His hand was warm and strong, his eyes a startling blue-green color, pupils blown wide as they fixed unerringly on Anakin’s face, and his voice was smooth sherry, rich and enticing, and even more languorous from the brandy he’d drunk. 

Anakin pulled away sharply and hurried over to the bookshelves, his legs shaking. He was restless and jittery, his heart beating too fast and his throat was absolutely parched from the heat in this room. _It was certainly too hot in here_, he thought.

He tried to push away the unexpected dizziness that assailed him, even as he could still feel the duke’s touch against his leg.

He scanned the titles, trying to slow his breathing, and observing the books which covered an eclectic range of topics. There were scholarly works, both modern and ancient; histories; travel guides; nature treatise; and even, remarkably, several works on swordsmanship. And that was just in this row. The books were carefully kept but it was obvious they were well-used. Montreschere read his books, he didn’t just place them artfully on a shelf for guests to look at.

Anakin tugged loose a work titled _The Swordsman’s First Friend_. His hand was shaking almost indiscernibly. _What was wrong with him?_ He flipped through the pages, noted the colorful pictures demonstrating stances, and turned back to the duke to wave it in his general direction. “This is what I’m talking about. This – this – _drivel_!” His hand wind-milled threateningly. “As if you’d ever actually learn correct form from a book! But it’s just like the nobility to try and narrow everything down to words in a book. To try and fit everything into neat little categories. Life is so much more than that, has so much more purpose and mystery and destiny to it than all these neat little_ rules_ you lot have set down in your _books_.” He snorted and chucked the book to the side. 

He turned back to the shelves and pulled out _A Guide to Swordfighters_ in Outremer. This one was even more ridiculous. As if anyone would hold a sword that way, even one that was curved. And the book claimed that swordsmen were identified from birth and trained in remote enclaves high in the mountains. As if a child would know the Challenge, know the feeling of your heart quickening and your breath racing as you exchanged the opening moves and realized just how good your opponent was. 

Outremer might have groups of men who fought with swords, but to think that such men could be compared to the swordsman here, in this city, at this time, was stupid, and further proof of the aristocracy blind arrogance. He snorted again. “This one’s even worse,” he declared, and tossed it behind him.

He pulled another. “Putrefying,” he declared, hurling it over his shoulder and almost hitting the duke, who’d come up behind him. 

“Are all my books so abhorrent?” Montreschere asked, amused, his breath ghosting hot against the back of Anakin’s neck. The duke reached out and placed his hand over Anakin’s, stopping the swordsman from pulling out and desecrating another book. 

Anakin’s heart jumped and he pulled away from the duke, almost running to sit back on the couch. He stared determinedly into the fire and felt more than saw the duke come and sit at the other end of the couch. He felt those unsettling, intense blue-green eyes studying him.

“You can read?” the duke asked, faint surprising lurking beneath his aristocratic tone.

Anakin forgot himself and turned to glare at the man next to him. _God, he was beautiful. _He snapped, harsher than he meant to, “Of _course_ I can read. I can even _spell_ and do _sums_. Just because I come from Eastbank doesn’t mean I’m ignorant, _my lord_.”

The duke’s eyes widened. “I never meant to imply that –,” He broke off, frowning. “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.” When he frowned, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes became more pronounced and his blue eyes looked surprisingly fierce. There was a tension in his languid body, like a spring coiled before just it snapped.

The swordsman had a sudden desire to know just what the duke looked like when he let go, when he was so undone, he could no longer recall his noble’s poise and all that self-possession that cloaked him like a shield. What would it take to make him let go?

Anakin swallowed and hurriedly turned away again. He reached over for his own brandy again, draining the glass in one, desperate movement. “Well,” he asked, his voice too hoarse to be called flirting. “What should I call you then?”

“Well my – Do you even know my name?” the duke asked quietly, and Anakin’s gaze was drawn towards him again, like a magnet to a loadstone, impossible to resist or deny. The duke’s hands rubbed carefully down his pants, absently smoothing the fabric there, as he seemed lost in thought.

“You mean, it’s not ‘my lord’?” Anakin asked sarcastically, not liking it when the older man’s attention left him for even a moment.

The duke’s frown deepened. “It’s Obi-Wan,” he said. “Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“That,” the swordsman opined, “is a ridiculous name.” And the duke smiled again, like the sun rising over the horizon on a frosty, mid-winter morning. _Fuck_, Anakin thought, dazedly.

“My mother was a slightly ridiculous person,” the duke confided, then paused and offered. “My middle name is Benedicutus.”

“Oh God.”

“I think,” the duke said delicately, “the good Lord had very little to do with it. It’s a family name.” He waved a hand airily. “I expect my grandson will be named the same.”

Anakin grimaced. “The poor child.” He steadfastly ignored the sudden dip in his stomach when the duke talked about grandchildren – a wife, children, legitimate heirs –. He also ignored the see-saw of emotions that resulted when he remembered the duke’s adopted daughter, Ahsoka Tano. Perhaps the duke – _Obi-Wan – Obi? (he shuddered) – Benedictus? – ugh_.

He thought for a moment and then shot the duke a cocky grin. “Well, I’m not calling you either of those, _my lord_.”

The duke had moved closer on the couch. His thigh was now pressed against Anakin’s own as he reached over and brushed the tips of his fingers lightly over Anakin’s cheekbone, and he seemed entranced by the curve of Anakin’s lips, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The swordsman shivered.

The duke looked abruptly intent and brushed his thumb over the same spot again, goosepimples breaking out over the swordsman’s skin. Anakin was so close to him that he could see the flecks of sea-green in his blue eyes.

“You have a bit of dirt from your tumble in the garden earlier,” Montreschere said, in that voice which turned Anakin’s insides to liquid fire. He realized his hands were clenched in the fabric of the duke’s white shirt, not sure whether to pull him closer or shove him away.

He suddenly realized what it felt like to be the sole focus of that intense gaze – and it was as addicting as the first draw of a sword, as a Challenge issued by a worthy opponent, as running through the city, _his_ city, with the Watch close on his heels. It was the first plunge off a cliff, the dive into deep water, standing on the Cathedral bell tower with the wind whipping all around him as a storm rolled in off the sea.

“Satine called me ‘Obi,’” the duke confessed, his eyes still utterly absorbed in their task of mapping Anakin’s every reaction; his hand wandering further over Anakin’s skin, stroking down the sides of his neck, up his throat, over his chin.

Anakin felt a flare of bright, red-hot jealousy. The duke’s voice had caressed this unknown woman’s name as though she was someone precious to him.

He moved until he was almost sitting in the other man’s lap. “Well, I’m certainly not calling you that,” he declared. This close, the duke smelled of rich brandy and myrrh, something fresh and citrusy which he used in his hair, and the clean, fresh scent of laundry. Anakin moved closer still, one leg thrown over the other man’s thighs, sliding onto him and breathing him in, lips almost pressed to the duke’s throat.

“I’m calling you, Ben,” he said.

Beneath his lips, the duke’s pulse point jumped. “Ben,” he murmured, sounding as dazed as Anakin felt. The swordsman could feel the smile in his voice.

“Ben,” Anakin agreed, as the duke tilted his head down, pulled Anakin up towards him, and kissed him.

The duke – _Ben_ – kissed Anakin as though it was what he’d wanted to do since he first set eyes on the swordsman. He kissed him like a man drowning. He kissed Anakin like he was the most desirable thing he’d ever seen, brushing wondering fingers up over his cheeks and into his hair, stroking down his back and holding Anakin to him just slightly too-tightly. He kissed him like he was necessary.

Anakin melted into his touch with a shaky sigh, utterly unable to resist, mouth opening to allow the duke to claim him.

Soon he was in Montreschere’s lap, pressing the duke back into the plush cushions of the couch as he licked into his mouth and helplessly kissed him back. It was as though he just couldn’t get enough of the older man, brushing his lips over that tantalizing mouth again and again and again in a desperate attempt to taste all of him.

For a while there was no sound in the Duke of Montreschere’s library save for the crackling of the fire and the quick breathing of the two men seated before it, hungrily devouring one another.

Ben tasted of the warm spices from the brandy mixed with the sharp tang of early autumn apples, as well as something richer and more complicated to describe that Anakin knew was just him. The duke deepened the kiss, tongue teasing along the insides of Anakin’s mouth like he wanted to savor every inch of him. Anakin shivered and let him, feeling dizzy and too warm and desperate and excited and happier than he’d ever been in his life – like everything had been leading up to this moment.

Anakin felt as though he were floating; like he was completely satisfied for the first time in his and as though he were also starving at the same time. He couldn’t seem to ever get enough of Ben’s soft lips and quiet sighs, those restless hands skating up and down his back and the coiled strength he felt in the man’s stomach and thighs.

Anakin kissed him like a man dying of thirst, refusing to stop even for air; just kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.

At last the duke pulled away with a soft noise, his head falling against the back of the sofa. His eyes were unfocused, his cheeks heavily flushed, and his lips were parted, wet and plump from Anakin’s enthusiastic kisses. He looked as though he had been ravished. 

“Anakin,” he groaned, breath catching in his throat as Anakin, sprawled across the man’s lap, ground down at the growing hardness there and attached himself to the duke’s collar bone, bestowing kisses on every patch of bare skin he could reach.

“Anakin,” he said again, breathless this time, as Anakin continued to rock slow and deliberate against him. The younger man’s lips had moved up to skim along the duke’s throat and he began to suck on the fluttering pulse point he found there.

Ben jerked and then moaned, arching up into Anakin as fluid as the sea. He was graceful even in this. His hands were clenched against Anakin’s back, as though he wanted to both pull him closer and push him away again.

Anakin smiled against his salty skin, licked up the straining tendons of his throat, and then sucked hard at his pulse. The duke shuddered. “God,” he groaned again, pulling Anakin hard against him, hips moving in counterpoint to the swordsman’s own until Anakin lost his train of thought and all he could do was pant against the hollow of Ben’s throat.

The duke tilted Anakin’s head up with one, long finger that glittered red as fire from the Montreschere ruby and kissed him hard. His hands went up into Anakin’s hair, tangling amid the unruly curls and he tugged until he found the perfect angle to plunder Anakin’s mouth.

He leaned forward, Anakin in his arms, to allow the swordsman’s questing fingers to slip under the thin material of his shirt. Anakin skimmed over smooth, hard muscle and felt Ben’s breath catch again as Anakin stroked over his stomach and teasingly dipped lower.

Ben broke off, panting against Anakin’s lips. “You’re going to be the death of me,” the duke said, his voice sounding wrecked.

Anakin rocked his hips again, smiling against the duke’s flushed skin. “La petite mort?” he asked cheekily and felt Ben’s chuckle like a sudden shock of warmth heating his blood all at once as it vibrated through the duke’s body.

“La petite mort,” the duke agreed. And in one, swift movement he flipped Anakin over, laying him down lengthwise across the sofa, and stretched his own long body out on top of him.

Anakin looked up at that beautiful face; the brightness of the duke’s eyes, the soft curve of his smiling lips, the fall of his silky hair as it almost entirely escaped the clasp and hung like a curtain around them both. He felt something drop out of the bottom of his stomach, a sudden ache settling heavily in his chest. It hurt to breathe.

The duke had one hand clasped to the back of Anakin’s neck and he worked his right hand free to stroke his long fingers over Anakin’s forehead, across his eyelids, up over his cheekbones. “Beautiful,” Ben breathed. “You are so beautiful, Anakin.” And Anakin felt himself flush, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. No one had ever called him ‘beautiful’ before, not even his mother.

He wrapped his legs around the duke’s and arched his hips, utterly delighting in the way Ben’s eyelids fluttered and the soft breath of air that passed his lips at the feel of Anakin’s body flush against his.

“Not as beautiful as you,” the swordsman muttered, feeling awkward. He’d been told by reliable sources that his flirting left something to be desired. But the duke didn’t seem to mind. Anakin raised a hand and cupped Ben’s cheek, running the pad of his thumb over the duke’s cheekbone. Ben leaned into his touch and then turned to kiss the palm of his hand. “You’re lovely,” Anakin blurted, feeling himself turn red again even as the tingles from the duke’s kiss ran up and down his body.

Ben chuckled, that warm, rich sound again, and shook his head as though to deny it, before bending down to kiss Anakin once more.

And soon there was only the passion between them, hot and fast, their panting breaths and shaky moans, and Anakin, who had never felt so entirely out of control since - - what happened with Padmé, let himself go completely because he knew the duke would catch him.

It was a shattering, and when he finally came back to himself, naked and entwined with the duke on the soft rug before the fire – in a way he couldn’t explain – he knew that everything was going to be different. Forever.

***

They didn’t make it out of the library, or even off the library floor, for several hours. Anakin had no idea how much time passed, or how loud they were, or even where he found the stamina after his fight and running across most of the city. All he knew was that he couldn’t stop touching Ben, couldn’t get enough of his reactions to Anakin’s touch, or the very taste of him. 

Ben was stunningly wanton and shameless about his own desires once Anakin broke through his aristocratic reserve. He seemed as shocked himself by how loud he moaned when Anakin wrapped his lips around him for the first time, or when he greedily demanded more and more of Anakin’s fingers slowly working him open, or when he –

When they finally managed to make it up to the duke’s bedroom, the first light of dawn was just peaking over the horizon. They kept stumbling on rugs and into side tables because they couldn’t keep their hands off one another. Anakin

The room was simply and elegantly furnished, and the monstrous bed with its velvet curtains and overabundance of pillows was the softest Anakin had ever been in. There was a single candle still burning on the duke’s night table, and by its flickering golden light, Anakin could just make out Montreschere’s lovely features, the emotions darting across his face too rapidly for the swordsman to decipher.

He was an enigma, the duke: reserved and yet utterly dissolute when with Anakin, elegant and yet his body was corded with muscle, well-read and erudite yet quiet and soft-spoken, with no formal education as far as Anakin knew.

Unlike his mother who had been sent to the best Academy’s on the Continent before everything happened.

Ben was hovering over him, pupils blown wide with lust and a look of wonder on his face as he pulled Anakin’s arms up over his head, fingers entwined, and sank slowly into him. Anakin might have been ashamed of his own unrestrained arching, the shameless way he rocked his hips back, his own needy sounds that slipped out of him before he could call them back.

But he couldn’t hold back or be the embarrassed when the duke was looking at him as though Anakin hung the moon and stars. So he pulled Ben closer, deeper, allowing himself to be more intimate, more open, than he’d ever let himself be before. The duke was holding him too tight, groaning as he tried to bury himself in Anakin, his lips caressing the swordsman’s own. Anakin would give him anything he asked for, anything he needed. He felt – he felt –

God, he couldn’t be falling in love with Ben already. He didn’t fall in love. He’d only ever loved _Padmé_: and that ended in disaster and had taken him ten years to even realize it.

And – and – anyway, Ben was a duke, a noble, and older than Anakin, with money and property and a daughter - -

There was no way he’d want Anakin once the shine had worn off. The Duke of Montreschere and a common swordsman? What a joke.

But as the duke groaned quietly and came apart in Anakin’s arms, body shuddering as he came inside the swordsman’s body and Anakin quickly followed him, the greatest swordsman in the city, and the most infamous, allowed himself to dream.

***

Ahsoka went to knock on the library door, slightly bemused that it was even locked, when Maggie, one of the upstairs maids, charged around the corner and waved at her frantically to get her to stop. 

Ahsoka lowered her hand slowly and raised an eyebrow, so unknowingly reminiscent of her father the duke, that Maggie’s eyes crinkled at the corner with amusement and she had to press her lips very firmly together to keep from smiling. The girl was Montreschere to the bones.

“What?” Ahsoka hissed at her. “My father is here, is he not?”

Maggie nodded and vigorously beckoned her over. Keeping her voice low, knowing the lady had probably been exposed to much more scandalous things down by the docks where she’d been born, even though she was a proper noble now, she informed her: “The duke has company tonight.”

Ahsoka’s eyes widened comically for a moment and then understanding filled her big, blue eyes. “Oh,” she said softly. Her whole stance lightened a bit, in a way Maggie hadn’t known to describe as threatening before. “It’s the swordsman, right?”

The upstairs maid nodded. She was a warm, motherly woman who watched the antics of the young duke and his teenage daughter with both maternal concern and fond amusement. If Ahsoka approved of this swordsman as a lover to her father, well then Maggie would make sure the servants currently discussing the matter in the washing rooms knew about it.

“I figured,” Ahsoka said after a moment. There was a slight noise from within the library. Ahsoka shot the door an alarmed, slightly horrified look, and began to move rapidly away.

Maggie, curious as to how the duke even knew a swordsman – surely all that nonsense had been left behind with his youth – followed her to the hall of portraits. Ahsoka stopped before one of the duke from when he’d just inherited the duchy. He’d been several years older than Ahsoka was now, fresh from the country and so straight-laced that he looked like he had a pole up his arse.

He was dressed all in black in morning for a father he’d never really known, and who hadn’t shown any interest in him once his mother had died. His eyes were solemn and over bright, snapping with the intelligence that the duke became known for, and his long hands were pale and gleaming with jewels – his only ornamentation – including the famous Montreschere ruby, worn by all the dukes before him. 

“What was he like back then?” Ahsoka asked, quiet and wistful.

Maggie, remembering all too well, snorted with amusement. “He was a devil.” It wasn’t talked about among those who still remained from that time, and she could see Ahsoka still, listening intently and obviously hoping for more juicy tidbits of her father.

“He was so conscientious and hardworking for the first six months that we worried he’d overwork himself to death!” Ahsoka’s expression said she could believe that one all too well.

Maggie took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure whether it was her place to reveal a bit of this story to the girl, but she had a feeling the duke would never do so – private to a fault – and it was all bound to come out eventually if he was serious about this new young swordsman of his. “And then he met her.” Maggie was ambiguous still in how she felt about the Duchess of Mandalore. “The beautiful and willful Satine Kryze.” The duke had been passionately in love with her, but the duchess was complicated, foolish, Maggie had thought at the time and most days still did think, and she’d been so convinced of her own moral superiority that she’d brought ruin and great sadness to all around her because she’d been unwilling to make difficult choices.

Maggie, whose husband had been killed during the whole debacle, was unable to forgive the duchess for that – and for what she’d done to the young duke who had loved her.

“And then?” Ahsoka asked her, excited and hopeful like it was a fairytale.

“And then everything changed,” Maggie told her grimly and Ahsoka, reading her face and her tone, kindly dropped the subject.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter summary – Anakin has a self-destructive streak several miles wide, Ben is self-sacrificing to a fault and Sheev makes his appearance.


End file.
